


Illusion

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Crossdressing, F/M, Masturbation, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-22
Updated: 2011-07-22
Packaged: 2017-10-21 15:45:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/226856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eridan's crossdressing is a highly ritualized illusion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Illusion

**Author's Note:**

> Someone requested solo March!Eridan from me and somehow it blew up into depressing masturbation. I'm sorry or you're welcome. I don't know which.

It's something of a ritual, or maybe an obsession, by now.

Addiction _is_ a powerful thing.

It always starts with silk. The feel of stockings as they slide up his legs and settle snug around his thighs sets off shivery emotions inside him--something fascinated. Something narcissistic. Sometimes he just sits and touches the slick and shiny fabric, enjoying the way it smoothly moves under his fingertips and slips against his skin. He loves the way the stockings make his legs shapely, sultry, and not-quite-his. Coupled with a short skirt, just enough to cover his backside, his garments leave a stripe of grey skin that emphasizes the length of his legs.

Next are the heels, strappy and tall and difficult to wear, but he's learned to manage them with time. The top doesn't really matter, he just picks something tight and showy that exposes his smooth stomach. More important is his face. He spends long, breathless minutes carefully applying lipstick and eyeshadow and eyeliner and mascara and anything else hidden in his little stash that catches his eye.

Tying his hair up is the last step. It can be a struggle when his hands are shaking and he just wants desperately to touch the pretty slut forming in the mirror. The word feels good in his mind, rolls around and sounds even better. Who wouldn't want to get their claws into the cute girl with pigtails and a sexy outfit to match? Only peons who can't appreciate beauty and good looks and _perfect_ , that's who, but he knows better. They're all just jealous bitches.

Long-denied lust and nihilistic, angry self-confidence boils through him, squirming under his skin like a snake waiting to be fed. Biting down on his lip, he leans closer to the mirror, hungry to study the image in front of him.

“You're such a hot little bitch,” he moans at his reflection, fogging the glass. He messily licks away the moisture, leaving a streak of saliva and black lipstick behind, his breath coming in short pants as his hands wander. Diligent, they seek and find all the familiar pleasurable places no one else has bothered to learn. Claws down the insides of his thighs, all the way to the silken tops of his stockings, make him shiver and mewl. Ruffles pressed against his swollen cock drive his hips to twist and his voice to whine. Touching his stomach makes the muscles there twitch and send lightning straight to his groin.

Scratching the wall for leverage, he presses his cheek to the mirror, finally ending the drawn-out torture by gripping his cock. The mirror's image doesn't matter anymore, his appreciation of the visual drowned beneath his mind's elaborate fantasy. His mind blurs, blending the line between him and the girl in the mirror. Sometimes he's the girl, submissive and owned by his marking claws, wailing with pleasure. Sometimes he's himself, taking this purple-blooded girl dressed like a harlot and making her plead for it, begging him for more. Music to his frustrated ears.

Eventually, stroking himself to completion is the only thing he wants. Even the images fade as he focus on stroking and the way he draws blood from his smeared mouth as he bites and dreams of someone else biting him, calling him all the right dirty words, _whore_ , _slut_ , trashy high-blood, filthy girl, filthy boy, dirtyfilthyEridan, filtyhfilthy _filthy_...

He shouts something incomprehensible when he comes, a mix of names and curses and insults, all wrapped up in blinding release. Hips arching, feet wobbling on unsteady heels, the pleasure makes him forget his name for a moment. Adding to the mess covering the mirror, his genetic material splatters vivid and purple across the surface, further marring his illusion.

His knees quit soon afterward. Breathless, he sinks to his knees unsteadily before landing uncomfortably on the cold floor. The room seems empty with only him in it again, with no fantasy girl to fill the corners. He drops his chin to his knees, smelling cheap bubblegum-scented makeup and sweat and wishing for—something. Somebody. Anybody.

When he glances up at the face in the mirror, it still doesn't look like his own. He would never look so messy or disappointed or tired. It's not in his blood.

That, if nothing else, brings a little relief.


End file.
